


A Deep Draught of Good Will

by RC_McLachlan



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Humor, Gen, New Year's Resolutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 04:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13227837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_McLachlan/pseuds/RC_McLachlan
Summary: Reflections and resolutions on the cusp of the new year.





	A Deep Draught of Good Will

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something written in about an hour. All the best in 2018!

An empty Pikachu tumbler is shoved up into Bulma's face so suddenly that she splashes a little Krug Vintage onto the countertop with a shriek. She blinks over the yellow and black rodent ears, which begin to dance as Trunks shakes the cup, like she somehow missed the fact that he almost broke her nose with it. She rolls her eyes. "Try again in about ten years."

"Oh, come on!" Trunks is still a few years away from puberty but his voice breaks like he's already there. "Papa drank wine when he was _five!_ "

"Papa killed people for _funsies_ when he was five," Bulma claps back, because there is no way that she's giving alcohol to an eight-year old, Saiyan metabolism or not. She fields enough phone calls from DCF as it is.

They both look out into the living room where the man in question is sitting on the couch, his arm thrown carelessly over the back, a goblet half-filled with pinot grigio dangling from his fingers. He looks every bit the royal fuckwit that he is. All that's missing is a gold crown tilted rakishly over his forehead. It's disgusting how hot he is.

Vegeta tilts his head back, all languid judgement, and rumbles, "Piss-poor argument, boy. I taught you better than that."

"Uh, _Mama_ taught me better than that."

"Oooh, that's dirty pool," Bulma says admiringly and splashes a tiny bit of Krug into Pikachu's gaping maw, because bullshit like that deserves a reward. "Papa definitely taught you _that_ one."

Vegeta clears his throat and pointedly says nothing.

"And it worked!" Trunks crows and downs the champagne in a single go. And then promptly spits it back into the mug. He gags a bit, clucking his tongue against the taste, and glares balefully down at the Krug like it personally betrayed him. "That's _so gross_. I can't believe you like that crap!"

"Like I said, try again in ten years," Bulma says, snatching the tumbler out of Trunks's hand and pouring a good slug of champagne into it for herself. She made it through another year without murdering any of her family or taking over the world. She deserves it.

Muttering something that's probably grounds for a grounding, Trunks pulls a bottle of soda pop out of the fridge and follows her over to the couch, where Vegeta's sipping at his froofy wine and eyeing the fairy lights on the tree with barely-veiled contempt.

"I thought that shit was supposed to come down _after_ the holiday," he growls.

Bulma plops down next to him and scoots over until she's slotted right up against the hard line of his side, tucking her chin over his shoulder. "Don't get your tinsel in a tangle, you dick, it's still December for another ten minutes. Let me enjoy my tree while I still can. As soon as the clock strikes twelve, you can take it outside and incinerate it to your heart's content."

He subsides with a grumble that gets lost in his glass, and Trunks climbs onto the couch on Vegeta's other side, curling up as close as his Saiyan pride will let him. After a moment, he kicks it to the curb and snuggles in shamelessly.

Over the spanse of Vegeta's chest, Bulma catches Trunks's eye and winks. He grins back at her. Between them, Vegeta says nothing, but practically radiates something in which he's only recently becoming fluent—contentment. It took years, countless lives, and the end of the world for them to get here, but it was all worth it to have this moment of peace.

"Any last-minute resolutions either of you wants to sneak in under the wire?" Bulma stares into the glow of the tree, lit up as if by stars, and smiles a little.

"I resolve to beat Kakarot into pink mist."

One of these days, she's going to roll her eyes so hard that they're going to get stuck in the back of her head, and then she'll be screwed. "I meant resolutions that you don't make on the daily."

"I'm going to build a jet plane!" Trunks pipes up, and it's such a surprise that Bulma lifts her head from its perch on Vegeta's shoulder.

"Wait, seriously? Baby, that's fantastic! You've never taken an interest in—"

"Goten said that I couldn't lift a plane for longer than ten minutes, so I'm going to build one with my own hands and prove him wrong." He pauses, then adds with great relish, "and then I'm gonna hit him with it."

Bulma can practically _hear_ Vegeta's proud grin.

"How about you, hair boy?" She nudges him with her arm. "Any resolutions that I can’t already guess?"

For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of his thoughtful sips at the pinot, and she's resigned herself to being ignored when he opens his mouth and says, "Learn more about the gravity chamber."

She blinks. "Learn _what_ about it? I know everything about it."

"But I don't," he snaps, defensive as any wild creature still learning how to be gentle. "I'd rather not depend on you if I don't have to."

Sighing, she tucks her head under his jaw and murmurs, "That's the great thing about marriage: you _can_ and _should_ depend on me. I mean, I do on you."

There's a retort crowding in his throat. She can feel him swallow against the barbs, but he manages to force it down, leaving his voice only a little raspy when he tries, "It's—I use it daily. I should know more about it. Perhaps you and I could... sit down every so often and discuss the particulars."

She could call him out on such a ridiculous lie, but there are only two minutes left in the year. If he wants to spend more time with her under the guise of helping him better understand the tools that help him train, she'll let him get away with it. Crowing about how much he loves her isn't going to make _anyone's_ New Year, except hers. "Yeah, sure. We'll hammer out a schedule."

Vegeta clears his throat and presses a teensy bit closer. No one would believe that the Prince of All Saiyans™ is such a sap.

The last of her champagne sloshes somewhere below Pikachu's chin, and Bulma makes to drain the rest of it when the arm she's lying against shifts with a pointed movement, then rests. Then pushes at her.

"What?" She grouses, glowering up at Vegeta.

He doesn't so much as glance at her, too focused on the tree, but his voice is reluctantly earnest when he prompts, "And you?"

"And me what?"

"Do you have any… wishes?"

Of course she does. There isn't a person alive who doesn't have a New Year's resolution or two, but when she tries to think of them, any of them, she can't find any that haven't already been fulfilled. It's as though they've clocked out, stamps on a library book card, dated and signed. Her family is whole, her company is thriving, the Z-warriors are alive and well, and she's never been more on her game than she is now. Plus, she's a dress size smaller than she was at the start of the year, so.

Outside, people in the street begin chanting a countdown.

"My resolution?" Bulma closes her eyes. "More of the same, I guess."

There's a whisper of skin against the fabric of the couch, and suddenly Vegeta's arm coils lightly around her waist, bringing her in closer.

When the people outside begin cheering, she opens her eyes. Wishing on stars—whether they're on mystical orbs, in the sky, or wrapped around a symbol of the season—never gets old. Another year has passed and somehow they made it.

It isn't even 12:01, but Bulma has a good feeling about what's to come.

"All right, peons, get off me. I was forced to wait until January and now it's January. I'm burning that stupid thing down."

Or Bulma's instincts shouldn't be trusted _ever_ , because it isn't even 12:01 and the year already feels like it's never going to end. Maybe it isn't too late to come up with a new resolution. One that doesn't involve fire extinguishers or possible homicide.

"Oooh, Papa, throw the champagne bottle at it first! It'll burn faster! Then Galick Gun it right through the window!"

Maybe not.


End file.
